No time was this for giving way to feelings of weakness. Not for one moment did Miss Storey hesitate. She fought the faintness and struggled on, though her knees gave way under her, straight down to the brink. She knew that Ivy might easily be carried past, out of reach; and it was she—little, delicate, timid, nervous Miss Storey—who had to save the child. She could not depend upon Mildred, and nobody else was within sight.
"Oh, auntie, auntie, auntie!" Hecla was screaming from above. "Oh, auntie! Oh, auntie!"
Miss Storey hardly even heard the sound. Her whole mind was bent upon the one thought—that Ivy had to be saved. She was praying that she might be able; not saying words, but lifting up her heart to God, like a child holding out imploring hands with a great silent cry for help. She stepped into the stream, which was swift and strong for so small a river. It swirled round her feet, and lifted her silk skirt, and the chill of it made her shiver and tremble like a person with the ague. Yet she took two more steps, deeper in. For if Ivy were in the middle of the stream, she might not otherwise be able to get hold of her. In a moment—in a moment—one moment more—Ivy would come floating out from under the arch. She paid no attention to the cries of Mildred and Hecla. She was now up to her knees in water, and she had to brace herself against the current, using her silk parasol as a stick. Each instant seemed fearfully long, and a great dread was on her lest the little one should be caught and held somewhere under the archway, as toy-boats were sometimes detained there.
Yet very few seconds passed before a helpless little form was swept to view, in the middle of the current, where it flowed fastest—so few, indeed, that Mildred, tearing down the road, could not be in time. It seemed as if the heavier body of the child was borne along much more rapidly than little boats and sticks; for when Mildred reached the lower end of the covered part, Ivy was already beyond her reach, and had Miss Storey not been standing in the water, some thirty or forty paces below, Ivy must have been carried far down.
Then, in a moment, when it came to the point of action, Miss Storey was strong and calm. She went one step deeper still, bent forward, and caught the little girl in a firm grip, turning to draw her to land. Before they were out, Mildred, wading in, gave help.
Miss Storey sank upon the bank, spent and exhausted, unable to say a word. Her heart was beating in slow, heavy thumps, and she all but lost consciousness. But Mildred roughly strove to rouse her, and Hecla's terrified cries chimed in, and she came to herself, to find a small limp figure lying upon her, the pretty eyes closed, the pretty hair dank and streaming.
"We must get her home at once—at once!" Miss Storey said, in a weak voice, for all her strength seemed gone. "Can you help me to carry her, Mildred? I am a little—shaken." She tried to get up, and fell back, but made a fresh effort, and gained her feet, saying feebly as she stood, "We must make haste."
"I'll carry her. Don't you try!" And Mildred heaved up the dripping, senseless little form. Though big and strong for her age, she was amazed at Ivy's weight, and found it no easy task.
"Hurry, hurry! We must hurry!" Miss Storey spoke like one talking in a dream; Hecla must run home—and tell Aunt Anne.
"Oh, I daren't!" sobbed Hecla.